


Scattered

by Eilinelithil



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Abuse, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Character Death, Cruelty, Curse gone wrong, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gaston is evil, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22061086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilinelithil/pseuds/Eilinelithil
Summary: Casting a spell, any spell - at least the ones that involve more than just the wave of a hand, or worse, the wave of an irritating fairy’s wand - takes time, and patience, and the right ingredients, and… just like any recipe, if you get it wrong, it doesn’t mean the cake won’t cook, rather then will, just with unexpected or unintended outcomes. All of Rumplestiltskin’s careful planning and manipulation, all of his hopes and dreams turn to dust; ashes in his bitter heart in the blink of an eye… in the fall of an equine heart.  Belle exchanges one terrible prison for another, and it’s one she is desperate to escape, and though Rumple’s fate as The Savior was severed from him centuries ago, sometimes fate itself has a way of finding an alternate route home.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 45
Kudos: 24





	1. Who, and Where, and When

**Author's Note:**

> Another prompt by Anonymous led to the creation of this fic, which, because I’m plot driven, character driven, or maybe just plain driven (and a little crazy sometimes), it evolved in ways I didn’t quite expect, The original prompt was: Footman!Gold saves Lady Belle from her runaway carriage. From then on, the House of French looks toward their servant with new eyes. Some aspects of that are now quite different, but follow the spirit, if not the letter of the prompt.
> 
> Additional Notes and trigger warning: Gaston is horrible. He is physically, emotionally, and sexually abusive and incredibly cruel, a complete and total bastard who uses brute strength to get what he wants, and cares nothing for the consequences. This chapter may be triggering for some people. For those wishing to avoid, start reading after the horizontal line, and then read the summary in the end notes of what came before.

“Let  _ go _ of me!” Belle snarled and spat like a cat. “No! No! Let me  _ go! _ ”

Her feet barely touched the ground as the two guardsmen half carried, half dragged her into the main audience chamber of her father’s halls, where, at the far end, standing on the dais, Gaston awaited. He seemed to be  _ trying  _ to feign boredom, but she knew better. She knew he was seething inside, and a frisson of fear went through her to see that lurking just behind his eyes.

Still, when the guardsmen released her, pushing her forward as they did so, she stumbled on the many folds and ruffs of her skirts, she turned first one way, then another to offer both a cold, damning stare.

She had been caught trying to escape. Dressed as a boy, and carrying little in the way of provisions, she had almost made it to the far outskirts of Amberley before she was discovered and dragged back to the castle. There she had been stripped, scrubbed and dressed ‘more fitting for a lady’ before being unceremoniously collected and dragged to the audience hall.

“Again? Belle?” Gaston all but sang, coming down to her. “Where would you go?”

“Anywhere,” she spat. “Anywhere but here!”

“Such as?” he said, still mildly, but she could hear the anger bubbling inside of him.

“I told you before,” she said, and lifted her chin to glare at him, her own anger reflecting his. “I’d rather take vows than be wed to the likes of you.”

“Leave us!” Gaston ordered. The guards hesitated, and he bellowed, “Go!”

“Wait, stay!” Belle immediately countered, and to Gaston added, “You’re not the master here yet, Gaston, and if I have  _ my _ way you never will be.”

His hand flashed upward faster than she could avoid it this time, and connected squarely with the side of her face. Her head snapped back, the jarring pain lancing up into her brain and she stumbled backwards, tripping over her skirt again and falling to the floor, unable to stifle the cry as she’d wanted. Instead of leaving her be where she fell, however, Gaston leaned down to her, to wrap her long hair around his fist and grasp her by the back of her neck, hauling her to her feet, and hurrying her toward the window that looked out over the courtyard.

“Was it worth it?” he snarled. “This little jaunt of yours?”

As she neared the window, she caught sight of Alex, the stable boy. He had been stripped to the waist, and tied to the side pole that held up the half roof over the stable entry, and behind him, a man at least three times his size and bulk was coiling and uncoiling a leather lash.

“Leave him alone,” Belle demanded, horror settling in the pit of her belly at what was about to unfold - and all because of her - “My father shall hear of this.” 

Gaston snorted. “And what do you think he’ll do?” he said mockingly, “The man can hardly hold his own head up, and you expect him to… to what? Intercede on the boy’s behalf?”

“There need  _ be _ no intercession,” Belle protested, struggling against Gaston’s hold as he moved behind her, her hair still wound around his hand, and pressed her between the window, and his body. Belle struggled to move away. “He did nothing wrong.”

“He helped you escape,” Gaston purred in her ear, “Or attempt to, at least.”

“Stop it,” Belle’s voice sounded less confident, with Gaston so close, his physical strength overpowering. “Just stop.”

She shuddered as he tasted the side of her neck with the tip of his tongue, and then whispered knowingly, “Oh, my little Belle, what  _ shall _ I do with you?”

“Let me go,” she said, her voice sounding so much smaller than she wanted, still trying to pull away from Gaston. “And let Alex go. It wasn’t his fault.”

“Hmmm,” Gaston purred, as though considering her words, “And if I let the boy go, what then? What will you give in return?” 

His voice had taken on a lascivious tone that made Belle shudder and redouble her efforts to put some space between her and Gaston.

“Not what you want,” she snapped at him. “You can’t touch me before the wedding, you know that!”

“Well then--” he began, but Belle cut him off.

“And there will  _ be _ no wedding until my father is well enough to see me down the aisle of the church,” she insisted. 

As if in answer, Gaston raised his free hand from where it laid at her waist, and outside of the window, the guardsman with the lash brought the twisted leather down with a flourish against Alex’s back.

Belle cried out in protest as though she shared the boy’s pain, and ignoring her own as strands of her hair caught in Gaston’s hand, she twisted away. Angered now more than afraid, she turned on him.

“You have  _ no _ right to chastise my father’s servants in this manner,” she said, “You are a guest here, nothing more.” She bustled past him then letting her shoulders and her elbows knock against him as she did, though it were dangerous, she knew, to get too close, and threw open the nearby doorways to the raised balcony. Going to the rail she leaned over slightly and called down to the men below.

“In the name of Maurice duMarche, I command you to stop!” The guard hesitated, his gaze flicking for a moment to Gaston, who had joined her on the balcony. “Do not look to this man. He is not your lord,” she added. “Release the stable hand, and return to your duties, and be assured, my father shall hear of this.”

She waited only long enough to see them slacken the rope around Alex’s wrists and let him down, before she turned her back on the ugly scene, intending to head back inside. Gaston’s hand at her waist, stayed her movement,, stepping in front of her as he did.

“Have a care, Belle duMarche.” he growled, “You  _ will _ be my wife, and there are ways and means for me to assure that… sooner rather than later.”

She pushed past him, refusing to let his threats cause her any further discomfort or fear, and hurried toward the wing of the castle wherein the physicians had sequestered her father.

  
  
  


* * *

He felt as though he was in the middle of a maelstrom. Nothing made sense, not a thought, not a feeling, no emotion, it all just whirled around inside of him, devoid of direction, devoid of meaning; without context. This was not the way it was supposed to feel.

The transition should have been immediate. He had written it that way, he had been very  _ careful _ to write it that way to avoid just what was happening to him in that moment. He should simply have ‘woken up’ in the new realm and… known everything. Here he was part Rumplestiltskin, part Gold, part… whatever the wild magic had made of him, it was all confusion - madness, and painful, such pain - like too many voices in his head all at once.

The creak of a door opening, and a blast of cold air - no, not cold, frigid, blew over him and the reality of that grounded him, at least enough for him to open his eyes and take in his surroundings. It was a modest cottage, one room, and a loft, a fireplace for burning wood and warming the cottage, probably for cooking too. There was a wheel in one corner and that comforted him somewhat, but otherwise, there was leatherwork, and some bits of metal spread out on a long surface that ran the length of one of the walls.

A tanner? A leatherworker? He spied a saddle in one corner - a farrier then? What the hell… who the hell was he?

He blinked then, realizing he’d been standing too long without moving and that the teenage boy that had stumbled into the cottage was looking at him, pleadingly, as if his non-reaction to his presence had somehow hurt him. And then he took in the boy’s appearance: that the top half of his body was unclothed, that he was hunched and the expression he had taken for pleading was not - it was one of pain… and that the boy’s face was soaked with tears that left clean tracks in the dirt of his face… and then…

Everything suddenly rushed into place, the confusion settled, though the disparate realities within him had not gone, and he suddenly knew: this was Alex, his friend’s son, and his friend was dead, so he was caring for the boy. He was was a footman, and master of the stable for the lord of this shire, and his name was…

“Rascende!” the boy gasped, and broke his paralysis. He hurried toward the boy, speaking in gentle tones as he wrapped a careful arm around him and drew him closer to the fire.

“Alex, my boy,” he said, “What happened? Who did this?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Alex murmured. He sank down onto the stool and allowed Rascende to look him over.

“Of course it matters,” he protested, “You’re hurt. Taken the lash it looks like. Why?”

“I did nothing wrong.”

“And I believe you,” Rascende said softly, “But let me take a look at you, hmm. Let me find a salve, and wash and dress these wounds… or… or heal you, yes.”

He started to raise his hand, already feeling the tickle of magic, and in his head a part of him was screaming.

_ No, no. no… no magic, a world  _ without _ magic… that’s what it was meant to be, to find Baelfire, to find my boy! _

But he already knew that everything had gone wrong somehow. That he wasn’t where he should have been, so… why would he be so surprised? Though he was no less dismayed to find he still possessed his magic - at least to a degree, for even  _ that _ didn’t feel quite right to him.

What  _ was _ he here?  _ Who  _ was he? Beyond of course being Rascende and bondsman to the local lord.

He lifted his hand toward the boy’s back, but Alex caught his wrist.

“No, Uncle. No healing. They’ll know, and that will put  _ you _ in danger, and I… I can’t lose Papa  _ and _ you. No one can, you’re  _ needed _ here. If anyone can make this right,  _ you _ can. You must.”

The boy sounded close to panic, and the sense of it was contagious. Rascende’s breathing quickened until he caught a hold of himself and pushed his own concerns aside, refocusing on the boy.

“All right, my boy, all right,” he sighed, “But at least let me take away the pain while I wash your wounds, and put on the salve.” Without a thought he called into being a small bottle containing a draught that would deaden the pain of the tears in Alex’ skin. “And while I do,” he went on, handing the bottle to Alex and gently bidding him to drink, “You can tell me what happened here; who did this?”

“They found out it was me that helped Lord duMarche’s daughter to try and escape,” Alex confessed with a sigh. “They had me stripped and given the lash - there were to be twenty, but I only took five before the Lady intervened. At least the men still look to  _ her  _ for command, and not that… that… bastard his lordship would have her wed.”

“Easy boy,” Rascende said, but he felt a prickle at the base of his spine, and all the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “Never know who’s listening.”

“I’m sorry Uncle, but everyone  _ knows _ that Lord Gaston is a  _ monster! _ ”

And at the mention of that name, a deep set nausea writhed like a caged beast deep in Rascende’s belly. A fury the likes of which he could not dare to imagine, and a trembling fear… and confusion… and doubt.

If Gaston were  _ here _ and alive, then his question should not be, who was he? Nor even where was he…? But he should be asking…  _ when. _


	2. So Wrong It's Right

Mayor Regina Mills took her usual daily walk along the main street of the town of Storybrooke, Maine. It was a town her curse had created, with meticulous care, a place for everyone, and everyone… well… out of place. That was the point after all, to bring everyone to a place where all their happy endings would be destroyed. Yet, that day, the same as every other day she’d walked those same sidewalks, crossed the street at exactly the same point, watched the residents of the town going about their cursed business, not knowing who they truly were,  _ something _ wasn’t right. She should have been happy, ecstatic even, but… 

It struck her then, as if out of a deep gray sky that threatened rain, exactly what - or more to the point  _ who _ was missing. Gold.

Stopping dead in her tracks, she turned around and deviated from her well worn path around her demesne, retracing her steps until she found herself outside of a particular store. She looked up at the overhead sign, that read, as expected, “Mr. Gold, Pawnbroker & Antiquities Dealer.” but the sign was turned to  _ closed _ and the door, when she tried it, was locked.

As she cast her mind back over the last several days, she recalled that every time she’d walked past it had been the same. No lights… no sign of life… and for a moment, for  _ just _ a moment she actually worried. Had bringing the Dark One to a world without magic, magic to sustain the hold the curse had over him, been the death of him - literally?

Then another thought took hold and one that was far more urgent. Abandoning the conundrum of Gold’s shop and the whereabouts of the missing imp, she pulled out her cell phone, and turned again, hurrying to where she’d left her car, dialing the number of the Storybrooke Hospital as she went and, already fearing the answer she would get, had her call transferred to the basement, the asylum, where she instructed Nurse Ratched to perform a wellness check on a certain… patient.

She heard the alarm go off in the background even before the nurse returned to the phone and spoke the two words that confirmed Regina’s fears: “She’s gone!”

* * *

Belle paced.

After visiting her father, in spite of his physicians insistence that she not tire him, she had told him everything. He had listened and she’d watched his face falling and his spirits descending again from the height they’d reached simply from her visit, as she spoke of her deep unhappiness. When she’d finished he’d reached for her hand.

_ “I know he’s not the best, Belle,” Maurice said softly, “But… but we need him, need his strength. Amberley has never been the most secure of places, since the church has always relied on the fear of God to keep others from invading, but…” he broke off coughing and struggling for breath for several long moments before he could continue, “but times have changed, and people’s respect for the church has… diminished. I fear for you when I’m gone.” _

_ “Papa,” she took his hand and squeezed it, hard. “Papa, I’ll be fine, and  _ that  _ will be a long time coming.” _

_ Her father chuckled completely without mirth. “Look at me, Belle,” he said. “I can barely catch a breath, and I’m wasting away. I know you don’t want to hear it, dear daughter, but… I am not long for this world.” _

_ “Don’t say that,” she dropped his hand, and backed away as though putting distance between them would belie his words. “You’ve years yet, and I’ve already told Gaston that there will be no wedding until you can walk me down the aisle.” _

_ “Belle, please…” her father said, and spent the next few minutes coughing uncontrollably until Belle, fearing for him, returned to his side and took his hand again, murmuring apologies, and mopping his brow with the cool cloth left at his bedside. _

_ “Please…” he murmured softly when at last he could, “...please hear me, my love. I didn’t make this match lightly. Amberley needs his strength, where  _ mine  _ is gone.” _

When her father had lapsed into sleep, Belle had returned to her rooms, instructing her maids that she was not to be disturbed, and had taken to her books. There was something not right. With all of the physicians attending her father, he never rallied, he simply languished in that horrible state between life and death; his room already smelling of decay, a charnel house in the making. When she could find nothing useful, nothing that made sense, she began to pace, and in her pacing began trying to put together the pieces of everything that had happened.

Needing more information, she set off with a determined stride, to her father’s study, where she read every single piece of correspondence from the last few months, scouring the words for any  _ hint  _ of conspiracy or wrongdoing; trials or troubles.

She was about to give up, finding nothing particular of interest, when she stumbled - almost literally as she moved around the darkening study in search of a candle stub to light - over her father’s ledger, fallen at the base of one of the chairs by the fireplace, and with a smudged and crumpled piece of paper half out of one of the pages, as if marking a place.

With a candle lit, at last, she took the ledger back to the table, and opened it to the page the paper, which turned out to be a letter, marked. It was a page in which the figures did not paint a rosy picture of the duMarche household finances, nor of Amberley’s resources. She glanced at the letter then, looking first to the signature at the bottom of the single page of closely written words. It was from the neighboring lord, Gaston’s father, and in the light of the single candle she fought to make out much of the contents of the letter, between the close text and the fact that a hand - presumably her father’s - had crumpled the letter, as though denying the contents. She could make out only a few: vassail lord… alliance… debt… marriage… It didn’t take much to put the pieces together then.

_ She  _ was the price her father had been forced to pay in order to avoid falling into debt and servitude of another lord, and he’d tried to keep the truth from her… lied even that day when she’d spoken to him of what had happened.

But then, even  _ that _ didn’t make sense. Her father was always so careful, so frugal and sensible, there was no  _ way _ he would have gotten the household  _ and _ the town into trouble enough to need the help of any other lord, unless…

With renewed determination and vigor, she began to go back over each and every page of numbers, the picture growing darker, as was the sky outside, as she did.

* * *

Rascende took his time dressing, getting used to the unfamiliar attire he’d have to wear as his lordship’s footman. The pants were a deep purple, and the waistcoat of a gold colored silk with purple brocade, reversed in the long coat worn over the top of the ensemble, beneath it all a white shirt and cravat caressed his skin… perhaps not quite so unfamiliar as he thought on it, and shrugged a little to settle it all into place. It wasn’t exactly leather, but it reminded him of some of his more garish outfits he’d worn on his travels outside of the dark castle.

He sighed softly, and picking up his white gloves, he paused on his way through the cottage to check on Alex. The boy was still groggy from sleep, and from the medicine Rascende had given him. He perched for a moment on a stool next to the boy’s cot.

“You know, you really should rest, my boy,” he said softly, “and since I’m technically in charge of the stable hands, I’ll happily excuse you for the day.”

But Alex sat up, wincing, but shaking his head all the same. “I’ll not give him the pleasure of knowing he hurt me,” he said, “Nor will I make her ladyship feel guilty for what  _ he _ did to me.”

Rascende sighed again, softer this time, but he nodded his head, understanding. “Then at least take your time,” he said, “and if anyone asks, I’ll tell them you’re running an errand for me.”

“Thank you.” Alex smiled, and then gave him an almost playful push, before he added, “but  _ you _ better get going. It wouldn’t do to have his lordship’s footman late for his duties.” Then his playfulness evaporated as he added, “that would be all that Gaston would need to be rid of one of Lord duMarche’s men and bring in another one of his own.”

Rascende growled softly, and standing, mumbled under his breath, “Over my dead body,” then worried at why it should matter so much. What did his subconscious mind know that his wakeful one did not?

“Never you worry, lad,” he said more clearly, “I’ll not be late.”

As Alex had slept the night before, Rumplestiltskin had shed the persona of this world, and tested the extent of his magic. It wasn’t quite as strong as it had been in the Enchanted Forest, nor as it would have been if Regina - damn her eternal soul - had correctly cast the curse, and matters had progressed as they should toward the breaking of it, and the return of magic for which he had made provision, but there was enough superstition and the wild magic of the sympathetic hedgewise fuelling the natural order of things that he could still perform such magic as would likely be useful in this world, including apparating himself from one place to another, if the need arose.

Still, the need had not, and he had plenty of time to clear his head with a walk from the cottage to Amberley Castle, where his duties awaited; plenty of time to check into the stables, to see to it that Alex’ duties were covered by the other stablehands until the boy would get there, and plenty of time to acquaint himself with the household and the rest of the staff and, he thought more darkly, to take the measure of Gaston, and to find out whether--

A small, dark hair whirlwind of a woman, in a flowing golden gown almost took him from his feet as she rushed at him, grasping his arms and pushing him back within the relative privacy of the stable, out of sight of the main courtyard. He didn’t need to see any more than that, nor to hear her speak to know… sweet gods, he would know her  _ anywhere. _

Her touch burned him, sending pulse upon pulse, and wave upon wave of undirected magical energy through him, scorching him, stinging his eyes and filling his head with a ringing whiteness that was so pure it was painful. He gasped and staggered backwards for a moment, his ankle suddenly giving way as though he  _ was _ in a world without magic and the old self harm took hold of him once more.

As he did, her ladyship - for he had yet to discover whether her memories from Avonlea were hers or if the curse had taken them from her as it ripped her out of space, and it seemed time, for had not Regina told him of her death? - seemed to come to her own senses.

“Forgive me, Master Rascende,” she said, her voice washing over him, squeezed his heart, wringing all the love he felt for her out into his blood to leave him drowning in it, “but I must know: how is Alex, please tell me--”

How he maintained the presence of mind to answer her, he would never know, but he raised a hand between them, interrupting her with words spoken in a soothing tone, while at the same time feeling his heart begin to sink. She was cursed. She did not know him.

“He is well enough, my lady,” he said, inclining his head, part in respect, and part so that she would not see that his eyes shone with unshed tears. “I bid him take his time today, and treated his wounds before he slept last eve.”

“You’re a godsend to us,” she told him, then almost hesitantly asked, “If… if it came to it, Master Rascende…” Then trailed off and looked around her as though suddenly fearing to speak what it was that was on her mind.

“Go on,” he prompted softly.

“If it came to it,” she leaned a little closer, and the familiar, remembered and much beloved scent enveloped him, and he breathed in deeply of her, “can I count on you; on your loyalty and support.”

His breath shuddered in his chest and his heart refused to beat a moment longer without contact with her sweet, soft skin, and he reached out then and clutched her hand in his, using the pretense of loyalty to take for himself a selfish moment, he lifted the back of her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles softly, feeling the flush and the burst of the gathered magic she had awoken in him burst from the contact.

For a moment he dared to raise his eyes to hers, to find her gazing back at him, light in the clear blue pools of her soul filled with a second of almost-recognition and then…

“Belle!” Gaston’s voice.

… it was gone, as she snatched her hand away from his.

“I must go,” she said, her eyes filled with deep concern. “I cannot have him find us together like this. Tell me quickly. Are you with me?”

“Always, my Belle,” he said, uncaring of the slip of his tongue.

She nodded with a whispered, “Thank you,” and then rushed out through the stables into the meadow beyond, to where her favored mare was grazing… and Rumple, that was Rascende, staggered back as he watched her go, unable to hold the rage of emotion inside of him any more, as tears of love, and loss, and anger and fear… even fear, burst from inside of him in huge, wracking sobs even as he raised his hand, twisting his trembling wrist, and left only a swirl of burgundy smoke in his wake.


	3. Manhunt

Jefferson stood at the window of the upstairs landing, looking out over the woods behind his mansion sized home, watching the flashes of color move through the trees as the line of men and women combed the undergrowth, looking for an escaped mental patient that he, (and he suspected, Regina), knew did not exist. Not in Storybrooke anyway.

He shook his head, covering his eyes with his hands for a moment, feeling once more overwhelmed. He had no idea why, or even how he had escaped the effects of the curse that everyone else had suffered; how he had retained his memories of his Enchanted Forest life on top of his new, Storybrooke memories, which he knew were fake, but which didn’t hurt any less.

Moreover, he didn’t understand how he  _ knew _ the things that he did; how he knew that Belle wasn’t here in this realm… and neither was Rumplestiltskin; how he was sure that this made a huge mess of  _ everything _ that should have been.

He leaned his aching head against the cool of the glass, listening to the shouts and whistles, whispering tiredly, as if Regina were standing right behind him, “Why this charade, when you know what you did is the cause of all this.”

* * *

Belle ignored the repeated shouts of her name and leaned against the mare, who seemed to sense her despondency and hooked her neck over Belle’s shoulder, as if attempting to give her comfort, but she despaired that there was no comfort to be had.

Unconsciously, she looked back toward the stable, wondering what it was that had come over her as Master Rascende had pledged his loyalty to her with his kiss to her knuckles. For a moment, a moment only as her eyes met his following the kiss, she felt as though she had shared another lifetime with him; together in another place, but it made no sense, and the moment was gone in the instant Gaston had called her name.

She blushed as she remembered the feeling that had accompanied the thought, a deep and spiralling ache inside, and a fluttering of her heart, but how could she feel that way with a man she didn’t know, and had little dealing with, other than as her father’s vassail.

“Belle!” Gaston interrupted her confused emotions, and they were replaced by a deep sense of dread. “Didn’t you hear me calling?”

She backed away as she turned to see the expression on his face, as dark as a winter storm, and the irritation in his voice, like thunder. She was afraid, but she refused to be cowed.

“I wasn’t aware that I was at your beck and call,” she answered, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

“My beck and--” his voice rose as if he were about to bellow at her, but then he lowered his tone, leaned toward her and said, “Woman, I  _ know _ that you spoke to your father, and told him how unhappy you are. He suggested I try to  _ woo _ you… Imagine that…? So you and I are to have dinner this evening, just the two of us… alone. I  _ suggest  _ that you make an effort to  _ be _ there.”

There was no invitation in his voice, only threat, to match the way he suddenly grasped her upper arms and pulled her away from the horse, and closer to him as he leaned down still further, almost nose to nose with him.

“I know you’re up to something,” he warned, softly, “but let me caution you… little girl…  _ no one  _ gets the better of Gaston.” Another pause before he finished, “Especially not you.”

“Lay your hands on me again,” she snapped, twisting away from him then, and raised her face so quickly he was forced to pull back, or suffer a blow from her forehead, likely against his nose… at least that was her hope. “And I will find a way to ensure your welcome to this kingdom is well and truly at an end.”

“Oh,” he laughed in her face. “You and what army…?”

* * *

  
  


He hadn’t the slightest notion of the location to which he should aparate, just simply  _ away. _

As if the soul crushing knowledge that his Belle; his sweet, strong… brave and true Belle with all her wide eyed innocent hope for the world had died at her own hands, driven by a cruel, uncaring father who cared only about appearances and his own reputation, had not been enough to break him apart, shatter him, and scatter all the pieces to the four quarters of the Earth, seeing her alive, yet with no knowledge of him - and no real hope of ever regaining that knowledge before her death should come - was enough to fill him with a rage of despair strong enough to do the same to all the Realms.

Materializing in the heart of the forest surrounding Amberley, he let out a cry that tore his throat to shreds, echoing across the landscape like that of the Kingstag in rut that had lost his queen. He staggered backwards, his arm missing the trunk of the tree that he sought for support, and landed with an ungraceful thud on his rear, uncaring, as he reached up to tear at his hair. Feeling suddenly helpless, lost and uncertain.

His hands clenched into claws, fingers digging into the mossy ground beneath him as he let out another cry - the fear that harm would come to Belle at Gaston’s hands and there would be  _ nothing _ he could do about it… even feeling the muted trickle of magic that was pulling from the ground and into him… but it wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. He’d lost them. Lost them both; Lost the chance to find Bae, the chance to redeem himself to his son, and now… had lost his Belle all  _ over _ again, thanks to Regina and her arrogant incompetence. Oh, how could he not have  _ seen _ it? How could he had been so foolish as to allow her to cast the curse unsupervised, unguided? How could he not have checked that he had dotted  _ every _ i and crossed each t in the drafting of the Dark Curse? How did he not see through Regina’s tale spinning, gloating, mocking lies? How could he not have  _ known! _

The growl that accompanied his final thought in the string of self deprecating thoughts echoed and amplified, a storm around him and within him until it burst forth in furious release. The power of it shattered the old oak that stood directly in its path, a rain of sawdust and wood chips falling to the mossy forest floor.

Rumplestiltskin took a breath, held it, and forced his mind to calm; to stop the world and his thoughts; out of control emotions from spinning and driving him, when he should have been driving  _ them. _

“Magic. Is. Emotion,” he murmured softly another deep breath bringing himself further under control; reminding himself, assuring himself that he was not  _ helpless _ here.

He would, however, have to tread just a little carefully; carefully until he had everything, every _ one _ entirely where he needed them. Slowly, he stood up and dusted himself off. Given that he had no idea where he’d apparated to, he would need to do the same back, and once he was… the entire castle _ and  _ the visiting entourage would learn  _ just  _ how confident Master Rascende was… only… Belle… with Belle, he must be more gentle yet.


	4. The Price Of Denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie - this is ugly and will quite likely be triggering. There is the heavy implication that Gaston took Belle against her will, nothing is 'seen' except the preceeding violence, but if you feel this will trigger you, just read the sections at the beginning (Jefferson) and the end (Rumple).

Jefferson wasn’t surprised when Regina showed up on his doorstep later that evening. He opened the door, threw her a bored expression and then began to walk back into the house, not bothering to close the door, or to greet her, knowing that she’d follow him anyway, or beat the hell out of his door if he closed it in her face as he felt like doing.

“Jefferson,” she began, as she did, indeed, follow him. “Where _is_ she? Why isn’t she here?”

“You expect _me_ to understand the nuances of magic?” he asked sarcastically, adding, “I”m just a portal jumper, remember? I expect because you cast it wrong.”

“What?!” Regina snapped.

“The curse,” he said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, completely misinterpreting her reason for asking. “You know the reason we’re all here in this godforsaken place, living fake lives just so you can have your happy ending?”

“How _dare_ you?” she roared at him, but he refused to be intimidated - because what was she going to do to him, after all, without her magic - and spun round to face her, drawing up to his full height and raising his voice, sick of the way she’d always spoken to him; sick of all she was doing to him, and to Grace and to everyone else.

“Because it’s the truth!” He threw up his arms as he yelled the words. He turned and stalked away, hearing her following again, and then turned back to her, getting right into her face in a way that few dared, gratified when she actually backed up a pace or two. “What you _should_ be asking is why isn’t _he_ here, and what kind of monumental fuck-up is _that_ going to put in this little scheme of yours?”

Regina stood, momentarily stunned into silence, as though contemplating his words; as if she were indeed running through the moment to moment march of her plans. It made him shudder to think that she _had_ plans that went beyond the misery that she had already caused others. Eventually, having apparently weighed her options and come up with a solution, her face twisted into a wry little sneer.

“Oh, he’s easy enough to find,” she said, “and to bring to heel.”

Jefferson, however, was not done with sarcasm of his own, and snipped back, “What are you gonna do? Call out his name three times and expect him to jump realms like a little lap dog coming to heel?”

Regina’s sneer turned into a full on evil smile.

“Something like that,” she said.

* * *

The room was silent, the atmosphere heavy and the servants tiptoed around as they brought the food and the wine, and then withdrew. Belle couldn’t miss the expressions of fear on their faces - fear and sympathy. She shivered, in spite of the fire crackling in the massive stone hearth beside the table.

Gaston had insisted they have dinner at the formal table in the great hall. She couldn’t at all think what statement he was trying to make with his actions, other than to _remind_ her that in the absence of her father he saw _himself_ as the lord of Amberley. She needed to continue to disabuse him of that notion, but just then was more concerned with mastering her own, mounting, fear. His words in the meadow hadn’t been of invitation. They’d been the words of a bully, or worse - and since she already _knew_ him to be a bully, she knew it did not bode well for her safety that evening.

Perhaps she shouldn’t so openly defy him.

She frowned and shook away the thought almost as soon as it had formed in her mind. _Damn the man! I will not be cowed in my own home_. She decided that the best way to be rid of him was to discover what was going on with Amberley’s finances. As soon as dinner was at an end, she would go to her father’s study and investigate further.

With no warning, Gaston suddenly slammed his fist down against the tabletop, crystal glassware, silver candlesticks, and the plates and on which their food had been served shook and clinked together before he roared against the crackling silence.

“Damn it, woman, I’ll not have your silence any more!” he yelled. “Every meal at table and not a _word_ from you; as if I were beneath your notice.”

“Not so,” she murmured softly, her heart suddenly racing.

“You speak to the fucking _servants_ more than you do your future husband,” he went on.

Despite the chill of fear in her veins, and against every warning crying out in her mind Belle could not help but come so abruptly to her feet that she upended her wine glass even as she tried to prevent it from toppling. The over all effect reversing the direction of its fall. Red wine splashed from the table top to run down and soak through the front of her pale blue skirts - quite ruined, a spreading stain that wet her thighs beneath.

“I _will_ not have you speak to me that way,” she growled, the words also escaping her before she could stop them. “I’m no common whore to be cursed at, nor ordered to do your bidding.” She took a breath then, adding just as harshly, and mocking, “And I remind you, _my lord_ , that I have not accepted your proposal, and I have told you that there will _be_ no wedding so long as my father remains as he is.”

“Ungrateful—!” Gaston spluttered and also came to his feet. “How _dare_ you deny me! I have foregone the affairs of my own demesne to attend to yours in your father’s… illness.”

“Well then, I bid you return to your people,” she spat, “because we have no need of you here… and nor do I desire to suffer your company any further. Good night, Sir Gaston.”

She stepped out from between her seat and the end of the table, and turned to start toward the door, but his angry voice followed her and everything she was tightened in fearful anticipation.

“I did not give you leave to retire,” he railed.

She ignored his words, hurrying to try and reach the door, her steps quickening even more when she heard the rapid pounding of his feet after her. Her fingers closed around the handle of the heavy door and pulled, opening it a crack before his hand, and then his weight against her back wrenched the door from her grasp, the sharp pain of fingernails tearing masked by the fire that burst suddenly inside her skull as his hand twisted in her hair, and slammed the side of her face against the now closed door.

“You need to learn manners, wench.”

His breath was hot against the side of her face and nausea rose in her belly. She struggled and fought, even knowing his strength far exceeded hers, but she would not give in, not to him; not to this.

“And obedience,” he hissed, and still holding her by the hair dragged her away from the door and back toward the table. She dug her fingernails into his wrist in an attempt to free herself, but only succeeded in earning herself a powerful, backhanded slap to the side of her face in the instant before he tossed her, hard, against the tabletop. The impact drove the air from her lungs, and wound a band of pain around her abdomen. “It isn’t your right to deny what your father has already given.” 

“Don’t you dare!” she managed in spite of her breathlessness, which only increased as she felt his weight pin her in place. “Don’t you _DARE!_

* * *

Rumplestiltskin sat, brooding, in front of the fire in the hearth of the cottage, listening to the sounds of the wood popping and allowing the flames to draw his mind into a deep, meditative state. First, he had to find a way to rid Amberley of the threat from the savagery of the would-be Lord Gaston. He searched his memories as Rascende, knowing that Lord Maurice had only agreed to the match in order to save the demesne from financial ruin and a hostile take-over by the Lord of Chanctonbury, and Gaston, Chanctonbury’s son, was as hostile as they came.

It was all a lie, of course, Maurice had been duped, coerced and blackmailed into such a position so that Chanctonbury could own the land, and the resources it possessed, but the situation was difficult - dangerous. He could not let it stand.

A faint tremor, and an icy chill seized him, interrupting his thoughts as Rascende and throwing Rumplestiltskin back to himself, half in a rage, and half in panic. He leaped to his feet so fast that the chair on which he was sitting upturned, falling back onto the floor behind him with a sound like thunder… until he realized that there _was_ thunder - sudden and rainless - at least for the moment, as though the world itself was angered.

And as if an echo of the thunder, his heart squeezed painfully in his chest as the ghost of a voice he knew _too_ well, cried out in pain and fear…


	5. Embrace the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING : This chapter contains material that may be triggering for some people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the aftermath of what Gaston did to Belle. It will likely be triggering for many people. If this is likely to be /you/ please skip to the section after the double horizontal lines.
> 
> I was given the prompt: Footman!Gold saves Lady Belle from her runaway carriage. From then on, the House of French looks toward their servant with new eyes. Some aspects of that are now quite different, but follow the spirit, if not the letter of the prompt.

Belle wasn’t one to weep and yet she could not stop the tears.

Everything ached, and she felt wretched and filthy; sick to her stomach. Even the cracking of the fire couldn’t mask the sound of his lips smacking as he ate. He disgusted her. Slowly, she uncurled from the ball by the hearth at which he’d tossed her when he was done and saw him sitting at the head of the long table, sipping red wine from one of the unbroken crystal goblets, and sopping meat juices from his fingers; ignoring the debris that was strewn around the room. His feet were up - his ankles crossed on the corner of the table.

She looked away, down at her hands as she tried to straighten up, then looked away from her broken fingernails, and the cuts on her hands - the bruises at her wrists. For a moment she thought of simply plunging her hands into the fire, pulling out hot coals and carrying them across to grind into his face. It couldn’t possibly hurt more than she already did. She dismissed the thought, not because of any sense of self preservation, but because she knew she wouldn’t get close enough to do _him_ harm. He had overpowered her once, he would do it again.

Belle wasn’t one to run and yet she knew she couldn’t stay.

* * *

Rumplestiltskin barely retained the presence of mind to grab his cloak before rushing out of the cottage. Overhead through the branches the sky was split by forks of lightning and the clouds were almost visibly gathering, huge and dark, and pregnant with the chill of an icy rain that he could already feel in his heart as though it already soaked his soul.

“NO!” he turned his face to the heavens. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you _DARE_!

He reached out, embracing the gathering storm, the power in the air and wove it in with his fear and his anger. To think of Belle afraid… in pain… He filling himself with all he needed to reach her, to find her - heal her pain and take away her fear.

* * *

Ignoring the additional pain that moving caused her, Belle grasped the side of the mantle and used it to draw herself up to her feet; to hold herself in place and to keep her balance until the room stopped spinning. She could do this. She could leave; had to.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Gaston roared at her, and she jumped, but refused to stop moving; refused to answer even if she could have spoken through her cracked and bleeding lips. “Fine then,” he said dismissively as she took another shuffling step, and then another. “Get to bed. I’m done with you… for now.”

Each step felt as though she was being run through by scalding needles. Even breathing hurt and she knew it was going to get worse, before it got better. If it could _ever_ get better. It must. It did, at least by a barest thread, when she closed the heavy door to the hall behind her, shutting him out; no longer able to feel his eyes on her.

* * *

Her cries again reached him, sharper now, more acute and for a moment, overwhelmed, he lost control, and sight swept over him, confusing images and sounds and scents.

_…There was a sound, like thunder only sharper, and the smell of ozone and fire. A weight in his arms, the tightness of tears, loss, a hollow in his chest. “Who’s Belle?” And lights, so bright… so, so bright…_

“You _won’t_ take her from me again!” he snarled, and threw up his hands, conjuring a wind that gathered the deep purple smoke of his magic that was all that was left of him in the space outside of the cottage, and scattered it over the landscape like some sick, lurid fog.

And then the rain began.

* * *

“Oh,” a cry from a voice she knew, one of the older housekeepers, almost broke her resolve. “Oh, Miss Belle!”

She shook her head, then shook of the soft touch that fell against her shoulder.

“Don’t…” she rasped, her throat as broken as the rest of her. “I… I can’t…”

“But Miss…”

She swallowed hard, and shook her head again. “Do as he says… that, and no more. Do not endanger yourselves. I will…” her voice hitched, “find help.”

She knew it was a lie. Where would she go - save to his father, and what good would that do? He was at the root of this _blight_ on her people, she was certain of it.

“But Miss… you…”

“I’m all right,” she lied again, and pulled herself up to the extent of her height, ignoring the added pain, to walk the rest of the length of hall with as much dignity as her broken form would allow. “Do as I say. Now go. Tell… the others.”

* * *

* * *

When he materialized he was in the field outside of Amberley that bordered the road. He cursed himself aloud as the cold wet drops fell in huge splashes against him, against his face. He had focused on Belle, on the feelings he was sharing, her pain, her fear. Why wasn’t he with her? When was the last time he had failed to reach the intended space when he aparated? Then he saw it - saw her. Like a beacon in the storm, emerging from beneath the gatehouse arch, her form limp and listless, lolling on the back of a horse in nothing but her dress - no cloak, nothing to keep her warm and dry.

“Belle?” he murmured, though he knew she could not hear him. A hundred different imagined insults crowded his mind and threatened to crush his heart. He felt suddenly lightheaded from lack of air, began shivering from the cold of the rain in a way he had not for tens of tens of tens of years.

He saw the boiling of clouds above the gate to Amberley as if they were made of smoke from a raging fire, swirling and gathering, turning the air to a sizzling mass of charge in the air.

“No,” he repeated his cry of earlier, to some unseen, imagined _thing_ , already beginning to run toward the road. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you—!”

The crack of discharge was an explosion of sound and light, and power that threw the men and women who were milling in the sudden torrent of increased rain to the ground, as the lightning struck beside the road. It almost took his _own_ feet from beneath him.

The horse that carried Belle screamed and reared. Rumple echoed, heart strangling him, tearing him in two, but somehow Belle held on, a shrill cry of her own joining the cacophony of panic in the instant before the horse bolted.

Rumplestiltskin cursed the finite reach of his grasp on the magic of this realm with its natural vibrations, even _with_ his centuries of experience. He would have to do it the hard way. He ran for the nearest of the mounted guardsmen and leaped at him like some great, wildcat, knocking him from the saddle before somehow righting himself, grasping the reins and spurring the enormous warhorse into motion, wheeling its great head around and spurring him after Belle smaller, but terrified mare.

He leaned down closer to the horse’s neck and urged him on, faster and faster, scattering people on the road who must barely have found their feet again after the uncontrolled flight of Belle’s horse. Their anger drifted after him, for him to gather to himself, storing it, feeding the power growing in him, fizzing like the activator in some complex magical potion.

Nearer and nearer, stride by stride, the warhorse carried him, out-pacing the smaller mount. The beating of hooves matched the pounding of his heart, until at last he drew the horses side by side, matching flight with flight until he reached across and wrapped his wiry arms around Belle’s slender waist.

Already frantic, she him fought like an angry dragon as he hauled her across into his lap, letting the mare run on… run herself out. He slowed the warhorse, keeping a tight hold on Belle, until he could slip the both of them from the saddle and onto solid ground. He caught her fists as she beat at him, her wrists as she made claws of her already bloodied hands; wrapped her in his arms as he took her in, bit by bit. The state she was in slowly registering in him now that he had her, held her… whispered her name over and over again.

“Oh, my Belle,” he breathed against her hair when she finally ran out of fight, or else realized that he meant her no harm - and if he were honest, he wasn’t sure which. “My Belle, my sweet Belle… who _did_ this to you!”

She flinched at the snarl in his voice, the growl as understanding of what had happened to her resolved in him. He could _guess_ who had been the cause of it. He had to concentrate _so_ hard to draw it in, his mounting rage. She needed him now. She needed to be healed and whole, and could not do that for her if he was so angered that every little part of him screamed for murder.

“It’s all right, Belle,” he murmured softly when he could at last trust his voice. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you now, and I won’t let anyone hurt you any more.”

He passed a tender hand over her brow, letting what reserve of peace and warmth he held within him flow from the near touch into her, until she calmed, and went all but limp in his arms. Only her hands remained tense; tight little fists in the woolen fabric of his cloak.

“Master… Rascende…” she barely whispered, as though her voice was ragged, in ruins.

“I’m here, Belle,” he said around the painful knot in his own throat. “You’re safe,” he promised her. “No one will hurt you any more.”

… _Ever_ …

“Sleep.”

He held her close, and lifted her into his arms as his compulsion took her, and in the next moment, the mist of his magic, as dark and angry as the clouds above, whisked the two of them away.


	6. Magic...

The mayor’s office in the town hall was just as he expected it would be; gaudy and overstated, and but for her threats, he would have refused her outright. Whatever mess she’d gotten herself into screwing up the casting of The Curse was _hers_ to straighten out, not his, and he’d be _damned_ before he’d give her a moment more of his time than he had to, after what she’d done to him.

So what if Rumplestiltskin wasn’t stuck in the godforsaken hell hole that called itself Storybrooke? So what if Regina’s leverage, Belle of Avonlea, wasn’t where the queen had planned for her to be, safe and sound in the asylum; hadn’t exchanged one prison for another, and another? That was _her_ problem, not his.

He pouted, feeling as petty and as petulant as he looked as he caught sight of himself in the mirror while he waited for Regina to deign to look up from what she was scribbling on the piece of paper in front of her, as though making him wait gave her even more power over him than she already had.

“Well?”

Regina finally turned around the piece of paper and thrust it in his direction, and Jefferson snatched it up, focusing for a moment on the drawing Regina had made. He tried to school his expression to one of neutrality, even confusion, and not the dread of recognition as he set eyes upon even the first wave at the edge of the drawing. He tried for ‘carelessness’ as he tossed the paper back onto her desk.

“It’s pretty, but I don’t seen what it’s got to do with—” He was surprised he even got _that_ far before she interrupted.

“Don’t play _games_ with me, Jefferson,” she snapped, “I know damn _well_ you understand what it is you were looking at, _and_ why I want it. You spent enough time in the Dark Castle to know th—”

“—that he’d _kill_ the first person that came looking for it. Even me.” He turned and started to head toward the door, his long coat flaring out behind him, but thought better of it, and turning back came to get right up into Regina’s face, almost nose to nose as she stood up from behind her desk. “No,” Jefferson corrected himself, “ _especially_ me.”

* * *

Belle drifted in sleep, in dreams, and they were strange dreams indeed. She was first in a castle with a bizarre little man who spun straw into gold, like in the old folk tales her nurse told to her as a child. Then she was a captive in a dungeon, with a mirror that showed her pain and torment… torture, almost, of one she loved. She couldn’t see his face, the mirror was blurred, or too bright from the torch in the sconce at her back. Odd that she should have one, if she were truly a prisoner.

Prisoner…

The word gnawed at her awareness, clawed at her wounds to open them all again, until she could see her blood running, like rain, from her neck, and hands that pushed at a weight on her body. Hard wood at her back, and nothing but pain, and the rolling grunt of effort becoming a growl of thunder.

Belle woke with a cry, pushing and scrabbling at what covered her before she gained true, yet somehow numb, awareness, and ceased her struggles to the murmur of a soft voice that she recognized but did not know.

What covered her was the softness of a cotton sheet, and the gentle weight of the softest blanket she had ever felt. She opened her eyes. They felt gritty and sore, and she remembered crying. Then she remembered the rain, and the storm… and the gentle strength of arms lifting her from the terrified horse… _everything_.

With another soft cry she struggled to sit up, the movement sending needles of pain through her back, her belly and…

“Easy, Belle,” the soft voice surrounded her again and she turned her head toward the speaker as Master Rascende moved from the stool he had been sitting on to kneel beside the cot on which she lay. He reached toward her, and she couldn’t help but pull back in avoidance. He froze, but said equally as quietly, “You’re safe. I promise.”

She looked down at her hands. They trembled when she raised them, but she could clearly see that they had been washed and the worst of the cuts on them tended. Her wrists too, where she knew she had been bruised; which had hurt, now she felt only dully, and she could see that she was dressed only in the shift she had worn beneath her dress.

“You…” she tried to speak but her voice was hoarse, her throat painful, and as she watched, Rascende picked up a cup from a nearby table, and offered it to her. She smelled the honey as soon as it was close enough, took it from him and took a sip. The watered honey slipped over her tattered throat, and soothed away the ache. “You did this,” she tried again, and lifted her free hand so that the bandage it held would be visible. “You tended me, cared for me.”

“Yes,” he said. “I did what I could to ease your pain.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, then added in a soft but spoken voice, “Master Rascende—”

He interrupted her. “No need for titles here.”

She stared at him for a long moment, taking him in, properly, perhaps for the first time; the fall of his long brown hair, soft around his face. His deep brown eyes looked into her with all the warmth and concern it seemed the universe possessed, and yet a spark within promised fury, danger held in check behind the serious tension of his lips that were set into a line, as though he were fighting to contain it.

“Here?” she asked softly.

“My home,” he answered. “In Amberley Forest Hollow.”

Her heart started racing as he spoke their location, she struggled to rise, to _force_ her uncooperative body to move. It _wasn’t_ safe. It wasn’t far enough away. They would look there for her. It would be among the _first_ places they would seek for her, if Gaston had a mind to recall where he had found her.

“You… you have to… I can’t…” she all but fell as she sat up to swing her legs from the side of the cot as liquid fire burned up into her belly from her core, and down into her legs, making them ache as though she had been standing in frigid water for hours. He caught her as she began to tumble forwards, and she wanted to push back up… push away from him, but something… something in the way he touched her; held her and soothed her with soft sounds that were words and yet not words both at the same time, halted all the trembling tumult inside and instead she clung to him until he wrapped her tightly against him, tucked against his chest, beneath his chin as he moved to sit on the side of the cot, for her comfort, because she wouldn’t let him go.

Even so, she wept, “They’ll find me here, find _you_ and—”

“No,” he assured her on an outgoing breath. “Unless they know exactly where it is, only you, and me, and Alex can find their way into this place, see?”

As he spoke he lifted one arm from around her slender body, and gestured in an arc around them. She felt a sudden… tingling in the air, like the moment a storm breaks and her eyes widened as, in the wake of the movement of his hands, a shimmering of the palest translucent mauve encircled all that she could see of the entire cottage.

Belle gasped softly, but in wonderment, not in fear, as she might well have done. “So it’s true,” she breathed against his chest. She had heard the rumors in the corridors of Amberley Hall, whispered by serving maids and housekeepers. Heard and dismissed them, as pure fancy. Such things weren’t real. Such people, and abilities did not exist, and yet… “You _are_ a sorcerer.”

* * *

It was the most natural thing in the world for him to reach out and catch her as she began to fall, but his heart still clenched and he expected her to fight him. She didn’t, and relief ran through him so strong that he could have wept from it.

He was, at that moment, such a seething ball of conflicting emotions that it was a wonder that there were not things exploding around them; a testament, he supposed, to the control that centuries as the Dark One had given to him, not to mention his growing mastery, and familiarity, with the magic of _this_ realm.

At her soft words, spoken against his chest, he chuckled softly and all but whispered, “Yes.” He wasn’t going to deny the truth to her. Not now, not _ever_ , he promised himself - even if she still didn’t remember.

The thought pierced his heart, a hot wire of pain edging through him. Did it matter, when she was there and in his arms? He shook the thought away. It would be a kind of a lie. It gave him hope that, in time somehow, something would unlock her memories of their time together at the Dark Castle, before he had banished her in cowardice - and she had been right about that too - and because of his need to _keep_ his power in order to find Baelfire, but… what did that matter now?

The Dark Curse had been miscast. Months _wasted_ , rotting in the Charmings’ little prison, and for what? Nothing! He _wasn’t_ in a world without magic, so he couldn’t find Bae now. But Belle… she was real. She was alive… and she needed him.

“And I will do _everything_ in my power to protect you,” he promised.


	7. ...Always Comes With A Price.

Jefferson refused to move as Regina tried to stare him down. They’d been here before… almost this same, precise showdown, and with the same leverage. Grace.

The last time hadn’t ended well, in fact it was instrumental in his separation from Grace now and he wasn’t about to repeat his own stupid mistakes, not where Regina was concerned.

“No,” he said, sounding _almost_ convincing. So for good measure he added, “Absolutely not.”

Regina simply stared at him, her eyes hard, her gaze calculating and he could almost read the formulation of further threats that were - he had no doubt of it - going through her head at that moment. He fidgeted, tugging at his jacket, and just as he felt himself starting to falter, the thought of his daughter - lost to him in this cursed world - almost shattering his resolve, he had a realization, and snapped, “Besides, it’s moot, and you know it. There’s no magic in this world, ergo, my hat won’t work.” He straightened up then, feeling a flush of satisfaction at Regina’s expression of distaste, so added, with no small amount of satisfaction, “Face it, _your majesty_ , you’re screwed.”

The expression of distaste turned to one of amusement, and then smugness as she began to tsk softly, and came out from behind the desk, waving her finger at him like a ticking metronome.

“Oh, ye of little faith, Jefferson,” she said. “Did you honestly think I would bring myself to a world such as this one, without some kind of… contingency plan?”

Jefferson groaned. He might have known. He _should_ have known, but an act of desperation had him blurt out, “If you use all your magic to power the hat, what will you have left to summon him even _if_ I can get you the dagger?” He followed her as she paced across the room and he continued. “You _know_ even _that_ can’t work across realms.”

“Unless there’s already an open portal - yes, yes, I know.” She sounded bored.

“You _prepared_ for something like this, didn’t you?” he said, accusing and incredulous.

“Oh, p-lease,” she scoffed, “you think I’d _ever_ trust that twisted little imp?”

* * *

“So what happens now?” Belle asked as she finally pulled away from his embrace. She felt somehow cold without his arms around her, in spite of the still too recent assault. She felt safe in his arms.

“What happens now,” he said, his voice almost a strange kind of sing-song tone, “is that you stay here, under my protection, until you’re healed - until you’re well.”

“But,” she began, not even sure how to formulate what she was even trying to ask. “But… my people…? My father!” her stomach twisted into knots. When her father heard that she was missing, it could _kill_ him… if Gaston even bothered to tell him, though she thought Gaston might instead tell a storybook full of lies that would be just as hurtful. She truly feared for her father in his condition.

“Belle…” Rascende tried to interrupt, but she wouldn’t let him; couldn’t.

“My father is sick. Very sick,” she said, reaching out to grasp one of his hands in near desperation. “If he hears of this, of _anything_ , it could steal away his will to get well again; to live.” She felt her hands tremble against the warmth of Rascende’s. “Without my father, our people will suffer. Gaston will—”

“You leave him to me,” Rascende growled, then he blinked and softened the hard expression that had entered his eyes at the mention of Gaston’s name. He shifted his grasp around her fingers then until _he_ was holding _her_ hand and she no longer desperately clutching at his. “Just rest, my Belle,” he said gently, “And leave everything else to me. I promise I will take care of your father, and see to it that Gaston can’t hurt anyone any more.”

She did not miss the way he called her his, but it soothed her, comforted the painful tension coiling in her so that she focused on his words, his promise to her and something in her trusted him more deeply than she had ever trusted another in her life. She _wanted_ to talk to him, to tell him everything and surrender to him and his promise of aid.

“Chanctonbury,” she said, the hated name a breath on her lips. “He did this… did something so that my father would exhaust the coffers and—”

She jumped as Rascende’s soft finger touched just lightly on her lip and she silenced at once, stilled, and was uncertain whether it had been some kind of magic on his part to make her stop speaking, stop panicking and take several deep breaths, one after another.

“I have promised you,” he said quietly, “have I not, that I will take care of your father and make this little… problem… you have with the young lord Chanctonbury and his father go away…?” his voice took on a the same, and yet somehow exaggerated sing song tone as before. “And in return, all I ask is that you rest, and allow yourself to get well again.” He tipped his head to one side, to regard her, his warm brown eyes rippling with a strange, light, amber-gold for just a moment as he finished, “Do we have a deal?”

Another time… or a dream; a nightmare. Monsters, ogres, her people in danger and a strange little man offering help… for a price.

_”What_ I _want is something a bit more special.” His fingers curled in a gesture she couldn’t identify, before his hand disappeared behind her father’s form for a moment. “My price…” she saw him then, pointing over her father’s shoulder, “is_ her _.”_

Her head spun, she felt caught in a whirlwind, between two worlds with no foot in either where she belonged or where she _should_ be, and in some unspoken way she knew, she _knew_ , that neither one of them was _here_. She felt her eyes begin to roll and her eyelids flutter, the dislocation causing nausea to bite hard.

“Belle…?” strong hands - _his_ hands - closed around her upper arms. “Belle what’s wrong?”

The touch grounded her. Her mind began to clear in spite of the lingering feeling of faintness, and before the words could slip away she whispered softly, “The deal… is struck.”

* * *

“Belle look at me!” he commanded, though his voice was somehow still gentle, and not without hope. “Look at me. Hold on to it… remember…”

Desperation crept in too, though he tried not to allow it. He wanted her to remember, needed her to, then he could protect her properly, without this transparent charade. Why had Regina done this… more to the point _how?_

What if it wasn’t Regina?

_Impossible!_ he scoffed mentally, pushing the thought away in the face of the struggle he saw on Belle’s face, as though she were trying, and trying hard to obey his command, to hold tight to the ledge but with fingers that were slipping. If only he could catch her. _Who could_ possibly _be strong enough to disrupt the casting of the dark curse… Impossible!_

“I… I don… I can’t…” Belle’s voice, colored with deep confusion pulled him out of his almost frightened musings.

“Look at me, Belle,” he said again, “Tell me… what did you see? What did you remember?”

Her eyes were beginning to lose that slightly glazed, faraway expression and he cursed inwardly, almost begging for more time. If only he could get her to speak of it, to _keep_ it.

“R… Rumple…” she closed her eyes, her face a frown as she spoke his name, “…stiltskin…?”

“Yes,” he breathed and gripped her more tightly, “Yes, it’s me. I’m here. Forever, remember?”

“Yeah, I…” she murmured even more faintly.

He tried _so_ hard to somehow keep a hold of her; of her mind, of her memory, even as the shield flared and wavered around them… holding, though inside the cottage, the pots rattled on the hearth. He looked that way, for barely a second.

“Master Rascende…” Belle pulled away from his grasp on one side to be able to run a hand over her face. His heart lurched then sank, constricting in his chest as if the bile rising in his throat were a hand that grasped it. “…forgive me,” she continued, “I don’t know what came over me.”

“You’ve… been through a lot,” he told her, managing to keep his voice surprisingly steady, even through his own pain, “Perhaps you just need to rest a little more.”

She offered him a slightly bemused, slightly embarrassed smile. “I’m sure you’re right,” she whispered. “But you… you’ll still… you’ll help…?”

“Of course I will,” he gave her a sorrowing smile. “Just as soon as morning comes, I’ll go to Amberley hall and see what’s to be done… beginning with your father.”

She reached out and clutched at his arm as she lay down, and he carefully covered her again with the blanket. “Thank you, Rascende. Truly.”

His lips tightened from a smile into a part of the serious expression that overtook his face. “Think nothing of it,” he said, gently pushing with magic drawn from the growing things of the forest, and the natural turning of the seasons, the Land, to nudge her toward sleep. “I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

She acquiesced quickly, and he freed himself from her gentle grasp to stalk toward the fireplace, each step changed him from the gentle man he had been at her side to the tightly coiled spring of resentment, rage and pain. He reached inside of his jacket and closed his hand around the item he mentally summoned to the hidden pocket within. The familiar weight of the handle a comfort, a shelter to him in times such as these. He needed greater power, and this could give it to him _immediately_ ; without the need to wait on his full attunement with the natural magic of this world. It would serve him greatly - as greatly as he had already, always, and still served _it_.

“I’ll get to the bottom of _all_ of it,” he promised through clenched teeth, the breath of his uttered words misting the blade of the Dark One Dagger as he spoke.

**Author's Note:**

> If you skipped the first section because of trigger warnings, here is a summary of what that section contained:  
> Belle is brought under guard to the audience hall to face Gaston after her attempt to escape failed. He treats her badly, subjecting her to physical abuse, and also to overly suggestive and non consensual touching, and in an attempt to make her capitualte to his desires and accept her fathers arrangement to marry him, he shows her Alex, a stable boy whom she has befriended, and who tried to help her escape, being whipped for his role in it. Belle however orders her father's people to let Alex go, tells Gason that there will be no wedding until her father is well (he is very sick), and then storms out to go and speak with her father.


End file.
